In The Wild Purple of the Glowering Sun
by Winter-Eyes
Summary: The time may have changed, the battle may be different...but friendships and loyalties remain the same. Vimes and the rest may be far from the Disc, but history has a habit of repeating itself...especially when it liked the story so much the first time.
1. A New Recruit

A/N: Here I am, unable to stay away for very long. For those of you waiting for the sequel to 'Cities Apart', I'm afraid this isn't it. I thought I'd take a break from that story arc for a while to refresh my muse, and also so I can develop the ideas for it better. This is instead an idea that's been kicking around in my head for some time now…but that I promised myself I wouldn't start until I finished 'Cities Apart'. I'm quite surprised no one's done this already, but I'm also glad as it means I have an original idea for once (yay!). Also, those of you who know me (pips this means you) may be surprised to find no slash (waits for gasping…and cheers… to stop), but I wanted to concentrate on a wider sphere for the story to encompass, not just the feelings between a couple of characters. Before I start though, I should say that by no stretch of the imagination am I an expert on the First World War. This, coupled with taking the occasional dramatic licence means this story will not always be completely historically accurate. I therefore ask for your leniency! One last thing… I will dedicate the next chapter to any and all people who tell me in their review what the title is referring to. Please, no looking at the other reviews to cheat! Anyway, on to the madness…again…

**Warning: **If you didn't pick up the hint in my above note, this story is going to be seriously AU. If you want a stroll through Ankh-Morpork, go read my other story (hint hint).

**Disclaimer:** Well, we all know how famous PTerry is for his war stories, so I must be him…or perhaps not.

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**In the Wild Purple of the Glowering Sun ****

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**Chapter One**

Captain Vimes of the 95th Regiment waited in the comparatively comfortable surroundings of the field headquarters. He knew he should treasure any time away from the front, but he couldn't help but worry about his men. The Colonel had seemed more vague than usual in the telegram, but Vimes had a sneaking suspicion that was due to the terrible lines of communication rather than a deliberate desire to keep him in the dark. Just as Vimes was beginning to think the chair was fusing his spine into a solid lump, the Colonel's secretary opened the office door and motioned to him.

"Colonel Vetinari will see you now," the man said, returning to his desk.

Vimes entered the office and closed the door behind him. He took the time to glance at the large, annotated map that covered one wall before turning his gaze to the desk. As Vimes approached and gave a sardonic salute, Colonel Vetinari looked up from the mounds of paperwork.

"At ease Captain," Vetinari said in a tired voice. He picked a piece of paper off a nearby pile and handed it to Vimes.

"What do you make of this Captain?"

Memories of making paper boats to float in the gutters flashed treacherously into Vimes head, but he hurriedly suppressed them.

"It looks like a recruitment form sir," Vimes replied, wondering where the Colonel was heading with this line of enquiry.

"Yes Captain, and a rather unusual form at that. You see, the recruit in question specifically volunteered for the 95th regiment."

"Sir?"

Vimes tried to hide his puzzlement. The 95th had become something of a forgotten part of the army. It had become so depleted over the years, and with not enough recruits being drafted to make it up to full strength, that the remainder was simply attached to the nearest unit. To all intents and purposes, the 95th existed in name only…yet someone had volunteered.

"Well, however unusual the request, it was granted. Doubtless Lord Rust thought it would make a moral boosting tale back in England, or just something to get him noticed by those higher up the chain of command."

Here, Vetinari paused, as if thinking how much to tell Vimes.

"There are also…less savoury rumours Captain, ones that must not leave this room. Rumours that the same man who runs our little army had a son on the wrong side of the sheets. These rumours, of course, have absolutely no connection to our new recruit.I hopeI have made myself clear Captain?"

"Yes sir."

"Whatever the reasons behind this, Private Ironfoundersson will be meeting you in five minutes outside this building."

"Sir."

"Dismissed Captain."

* * *

Vimes was seething as he left the office. It wasn't just the fact that he had to deal with a wet-behind-the-ears recruit that would be hopelessly ill prepared for life on the front line, but the insult to the regiment as well. Those in command couldn't send the men for the 95th to be brought back to full strength, but they were happy to involve it in a silly power game if it meant promoting the war and the army that fought it. The fact that royalty was involved was the final straw. As Vimes waited outside, he fought to suppress his rising ire. He then noticed the figure making its way hesitantly towards him. To be honest it was hard not to notice him, even more so when the man reached up one very developed arm to remove his tin helmet, revealing a shock of carrot coloured hair. The man approached Vimes, dropped his pack, and raised a tentative salute.

"Captain Vimes?"

At Vimes' curt nod he continued.

"Private Ironfoundersson reporting sir, as per instructions."

The private radiated an earnest enthusiasm that Vimes had thought only appeared on recruiting posters back home. He sighed, and tried not to think of what became of such enthusiasm when exposed to the harsh reality of trench warfare.

"Why are you here Private?"

"To fight for my country sir."

"No, I mean here in the 95th. Why did you volunteer for this regiment in particular?"

"In my home village there was a miner who used to serve in the 95th sir. He used to tell us stories about the battles he fought with them, and life with the regiment. When I joined up, I knew it was the 95th I wanted to go to."

"What was this man's name?"

"Gaskin sir"

Old Gaskin…the name came almost as a blow to Vimes, entangled as it was with so many of his memories. It had been Captain Gaskin then, back when Vimes was only a Sergeant, back when the 95th had been a proper regiment, rather than the joke it was now. Vimes was almost glad Gaskin was back in England, and could not see what had become of a once proud group of men.

"How is he?" Vimes asked softly.

"Well, considering…"

Considering. That was a set of memories Vimes definitely didn't want to pull into the light of day. Just another reason why he didn't sleep so well at night anymore. With a gesture to Private Ironfoundersson, Vimes began to lead the way back towards the front.

* * *

As Carrot walked along behind his new Captain, he wished he knew more about the man that was to be his commanding officer. Carrot had so many questions to ask about life in the regiment, and the army in general, but after the way Vimes' expression had closed off when Gaskin was mentioned Carrot thought it best to keep quiet. In a way, Carrot was glad of the way Captain Vimes seemed happy to ignore him. It allowed him to hide the unease the trenches provoked in him. They weren't deep enough to be a mine, or shallow enough so he could easily see about him, either of which he would have been more comfortable with than this. At least, Carrot thought, being used to working in the convoluted tunnels of a mine meant that he did not loose his sense of direction in the twisting trenches he was lead through. 

Carrot guessed they were nearly at the front, based on the ear-splitting booms of the artillery as they kept up their near constant barrage of the enemy lines. From the field headquarters the guns had sounded more like distant thunder, but here the volume made him wince with every fresh shot. One of these times, Carrot looked up to find Vimes looking back at him, a half smile on the Captain's face.

"Don't worry, in time you'll get used to it. Soon you'll only flinch when the guns stop."

Before Carrot could ask what Vimes had meant, the Captain had turned and resumed his effortless pace. Carrot followed, trying to ignore the stench that was growing ever more pervasive. The smells of mud and damp would almost have been comforting, as reminiscent of home as they were, but even the dampest parts of the mine did not have the overlying taint of sewage and putrefaction that was now so strong. The duck-boards they were walking over were swollen and rotted, and Carrot knew they would be underwater if there was heavy rain. Indeed, some sections were already submerged - either from being in a dip, or simply as the boards had sunk into the mud they were meant to provide purchase over.

Carrot realised they must have reached the front line of trenches now. The fire-step along the front edge now had anxious men perched on it, who would occasionally sneak a look out across the no-mans land before quickly ducking back. Other men called out cheerful greetings to Vimes, and seemed happier to receive the distracted wave or preoccupied 'hmm' than they would have been with a more exuberant response. Finally Vimes stopped. Two men, both indicated as Sergeants by their uniform, stood gazing with nonchalant interest at Carrot. Carrot gazed right back at them, fascinated by these officers that seemed to be contradictions of the other. The first was a large, round man, whose size hinted that it could be muscle…but also hinted that it probably wasn't. The other was as short as the first sergeant was wide. Not much of the man's features could be made out, so covered was he with the thick trench mud.

"Private Ironfoundersson, these are Sergeants Colon and Nobbs," Vimes began, indicating the round man as the former and the shorter one as the latter. "I leave you in their capable hands."

With that, Vimes turned and ducked into the rough dugout that served as his office and quarters, not waiting to see Carrot's overly crisp salute.

"Private Ironfoundersson eh?"

Carrot turned to see that Sergeant Nobbs had been the one who spoke.

"Yes Sir!" he replied, snapping his hand up in another salute. A look passed between the two Sergeants, so laden with subtext it was amazing it didn't require its own carrier pigeon. Needless to say, Carrot failed to notice this.

"Please tell me you have a shorter nickname than that," Nobbs began in slightly weary tone, "Otherwise poor Sergeant Colon and I are going to dislocate something any time we try to give you an order."

"Well, back home people always called me Carrot sir."

"Welcome to the Night Watch then Carrot. What do you make of Old Stoneface?"

Carrot didn't reply, acutely aware he was talking to senior officers about an even more senior officer. None of the tales Mr Gaskin had told him had ever involved anyone quite like his new Sergeant.

"Don't bother with what Nobby says lad," Sergeant Colon spoke up in a tone he always imagined was quite jovial. "What's left of the 95th is too small to bother with much formality…off duty at least."

"He seems…" Carrot started, trying to be tactful, "curt?"

Nobby laughed.

"He's like that with anyone fresh to the front. Doesn't like to know you till after your first fight."

"Why's that?"

" 'Cause if you live through that you might just live long enough to be worth getting to know."

"Enough of that," Colon broke in, trying to dispel the morbid turn the conversation had taken. "You must have some questions you want to ask before we take you to meet the rest."

"I did have one sir. Why did Sergeant Nobbs call this 'The Night Watch' before?"

" 'Cause we always get stuck with the worst bloody duties like the Night Watch," said Nobby, before Colon could speak. "Seeing as how we're always tacked onto another unit, they reckon they can use us to do their dirty work."

Before the conversation could continue, a shout began to echo down the line, indistinct at first but growing louder as it was taken up by more voices.

"Gas!"

* * *

Vimes was out of the dugout like a shot and up on the fire-step. He cautiously raised his head above the lip of the trench and swore. A dense, yellow-green cloud was drifting towards the line, moving deceptively slow. Vimes ducked down again and turned to the Sergeants. 

"It's chlorine gas, and they've got the bloody wind with them. Tell the men to get their box respirators on quickly."

As Nobby and Colon hurried away to see to the men and themselves, Vimes turned to Carrot.

"Well, what are you waiting for? This isn't a training exercise."

"I haven't got a respirator sir." At Vimes' incredulous look he continued, "They said I would be issued one when I was with my regiment."

"Damn!"

With that Vimes turned and entered his dugout once more. When he returned he thrust a bulky hood and box into Carrot's hands.

"Here, take mine…that's an order Private."

The latter part of the sentence was said sharply at Carrot opened his mouth to protest. As Carrot began to fit the clumsy helmet, Vimes turned and went to a bucket that stood tucked away against the trench wall. With a look of distaste, he reached in and plucked out a rag that dripped the same amber liquid that filled the bucket. Vimes looked up to catch Carrot's questioning glance.

"You don't want to know," he said, before slapping the cloth over his mouth and nose.

* * *

Then, there could be no more talking as the gas was upon them. It rolled down into the trench and swirled in the confined space. Its thickness reminded Carrot of the dense fogs that would shroud the valleys below his home, but they did not have the disquieting tint of this unnatural miasma. The greeny-yellow hue made the mist seem sickly, and its billows and eddies distorted Carrot's surroundings, adding to his feeling of disorientation. Through the tinted panes of the respirator's mask Carrot could still make out the Captain, who was holding the cloth tight to his face as he leaned against the trench wall. Carrot moved to be next to him, needing the anchoring sight of another person…especially one as outwardly calm as Vimes. 

As the two men stood side by side, the gas gradually began to thin. The wind, which before had been their enemy, was now their ally as it gradually blew the clouds out of and beyond the trench. Carrot waited until Vimes removed the cloth from his face, then he pulled off the mask. Carrot waited until the Captain had finished wiping off his face with a clean handkerchief before handing the respirator back.

"You need to get one of these immediately, and that means not waiting for some damn quartermaster to remember you exist. Ask Sergeant Nobbs, he can get you want you need."

With that, Vimes strode off in the direction the two sergeants had taken, doubtless to check on the rest of his command. Carrot once again followed along behind, eager to meet the men that would be his comrades through this war.

* * *

TBC…

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Well, there's the first chapter. Love it or hate it, please review and tell me so I know what you think. If anyone wants to know what was soaked into the cloth Vimes used to survive the gas, soldiers were advised that holding a urine drenched cloth over their face would serve in an emergency to protect against the effects of chlorine. Poor Vimes, the things I do to him! This is only the first of many adventures I have planned for our boys…so I hope you want me to continue. 


	2. Friends Made, Feuds Broken

A/N: Sorry for such a long wait, but things have been very hectic what with starting my first term at uni and trying not to fail it (always a good plan!). Its been so busy in fact that I can't quite believe it's almost Easter already, and though I should really be working instead of writing this, I couldn't let anymore time pass without doing something vaguely creative! Thanks for the interest I got in this random story, it really encouraged me…all the reviews were MOST welcome. One extra thing to say is well done to the person who picked up about the 95th regiment…it is my own little tribute to the Sharpe series of which I am the most rabid fan.

One extra point…I'll now be trying to incorporate some war-slang into my writing, to add some extra realism (goodness knows this needs it!). Any terms I use will be explained in a glossary at the end of each chapter, as will any terms that might not be known to those who haven't studied this period in history.

**Warning:** Most definitely an AU universe, the Ankh-Morpork Guild of Merchants will not be happy. Also, these bluff soldiering folk can get a bit rough in their language…so try to humour them!

**Disclaimer:** Although I would love to have half of PTerry's writing talent and success, I'm quite happy being an 18 year old girl rather than a middle-aged man…even if that means I own none of these characters.

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Chapter Two

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"Sir, why Sergeant Nobbs…does he handle supply requests?" Carrot asked Vimes' back as he followed him down the trench.

"In a more informal capacity that what you're thinking, but yes." Vimes replied wryly. "There's always somewhere to find what is needed, and Nobbs is an expert in liberating the necessary supplies…especially if the person concerned isn't going to be needing the item anymore."

"You don't mean the Sergeant is a _looter_ sir!"

Private Carrot put the same emphasis on the word looter that Vimes put on the words 'High Command', though the older man doubted he could match the sheer astonishment in the boy's tone that was to earnest to be feigned. Carrot pulled a well-thumbed book out of his pocket. With surprise Vimes realised it was the British Manual of Military Law, something seldom seen on the front lines and only then in the hands of such officers needing to refer to it for field punishments.

"According to Part 1, Section 40 of the manual: 'Every person subject to military law who commits the following offences ; that is to say, is guilty of any act, conduct, disorder, or neglect, to the prejudice of good order and military discipline, shall on conviction by court-martial be liable, if a soldier, to suffer imprisonment, or such less punishment as is in this Act mentioned', sir."

Vimes, still astounded by the way Carrot had seemed only to need one breath for his verbatim quoting of the rules, realised the boy was looking up at him with the eager expression of all young recruits who still thought officers could solve all problems. Vimes sighed, thinking of how to frame his response. On the one hand, the boy badly needed to be told how things worked in this place, so far from the civilised world in which the rules had been written. On the other hand, Vimes still dimly remembered what it felt like to live in world without so many damning shades of grey, before life at the front lines had dirtied more than just his body. He tried to explain this to Carrot but, despite the ready 'yes sir's' from the private, the slightly glazed eyes let him know his point wasn't getting across.

"As commanding officer, I will decide whether Sergeant Nobbs' actions ever warrant punishment. And before you pass judgment Private, you should remember there's many a widow who would be without a final keepsake to remember her husband by, if not for the Sergeant."

Vimes could tell Carrot was still doubtful, but the boy only turned and returned the book to his pocket. Vimes hoped the private would keep his mouth shut. It would be hard enough for him to accustom himself to life on the front lines, without the hostility he would get from the other soldiers if they kept having rules quoted at them.

Rounding a turn in the trench, Vimes came across his missing Sergeants organising his motley rank into some semblance of order. Wanting to stay, but remembering the treacherous pile of paperwork on his desk already being turned illegible by dripping water, Vimes turned Carrot over to Sergeant Colon.

"Introduce him to the squad Fred," he said, indicating the boy behind him. "Hopefully this time the Hun will hold off long enough for it this time."

Turning to leave, Vimes shouted over his shoulder, "I'll be in the glory-hole if you need me…try not to need me."

* * *

Carrot turned from his salute (directed at the departing Captain's back) to look down at Sergeant Colon, who was trying to appear benevolent. 

"I better introduce you to the rest of the lads…"

"Them that are left, you mean," interjected Sergeant Nobbs.

Colon ignored this in that special way that meant it was going to be remembered and slowly fermented into a nice grudge. He looked reassuringly at Carrot's upper arm…that being the only bit of the private he could see without craning his head back to an angle he was sure didn't become a senior officer.

"You'll soon feel right at home, we'll all try to make you feel welcome for as long as you're here."

At this, Colon stopped and looked guilty, as if he had let slip something he shouldn't have.

"Sergeant Nobbs you've already met," he continued hurriedly. "We all just call him Nobby, as long as no officer from another regiment is in earshot."

Carrot regarded the short man doubtfully. The recruiting officer in his village, Sergeant Varnashi, had told him that soldiers should try always to look their best whilst wearing the uniform which represented King and Country. Sergeant Nobbs looked like he was trying to represent the country, in as detailed way as possible. Carrot knew there were several regulations in the book Sergeant Varnashi had given him relating to the proper care of uniform that he thought Sergeant Nobbs would find most useful, but after his talk with Captain Vimes, he decided not to mention them for the time being.

"Sergeant Nobbs," Carrot began formally, "Captain Vimes said I should speak to you about obtaining a box respirator."

Nobby sidled over.

"Yeah, I think I can lay my hands on one of them for you. Call it a gift to welcome you to the squad, especially as you wouldn't be with us long without one. If you need anything another time, you'll find my prices quite reasonable."

Carrot assumed Nobby was smirking at him…at any rate, some of the dirt around his mouth changed position a little. Colon reinserted himself into the conversation.

"Here is the rest of the rank." He said, with a gesture.

It had to be a large gesture, even though it only had to encompass the two remaining members of the 95th. This was because, while one of the men was shorter that Nobby, the other managed to be both taller and broader than Carrot. The giant, who was definitely solid muscle rather than fat, slowly lifted one arm in a ponderous salute.

"Private Detritus," he said with an easy smile. "Call me Troll."

"And I'm Cuddy," chimed in the shorter man. "I keep this big fella pointed the right way when we charge, and in return he makes a better target than I do."

Troll shook Carrot's outstretched hand in the careful manner of a man who knows he can forget his own strength.

"Did you enlist together?" Carrot asked, heartened by the easy camaraderie the two men displayed.

Troll laughed.

"Not exactly. Our families don't get on. When the two meet, it's like little pebbles bouncing before a ton of rock crashes on your head."

"And then some!" added Cuddy. "We gave the Captain a share of headaches when we first arrived."

"Then how…?" Carrot began, looking puzzled. A serious expression settled momentarily over Cuddy's face.

"Well, this war has a way of making you forget about things like that."

Cuddy, seeing Carrot still looked curious, glanced round the trench to make sure all looked quiet.

"This looks as good a time for a story as any. You got any objections to me telling it Troll?"

"Nah, you're the talker. I'll say my part if I need to." Troll dropped into a sitting position, leaning back against the trench wall.

"Better sit. When he gets going…" he said, glancing amiably at Cuddy and Carrot. The two other men sat down, Cuddy pointedly ignoring the comment as he cleared his throat to begin.

* * *

o0o

As nightmare flashes rent the night sky, cuddy tripped over something half-buried in the slurry and fell sprawling. He hit the edge of a shell crater, which collapsed under his weight and tipped him down into its depths until he landed in the morass of mud and water collected in the bottom. Wiping the sludge from his eyes, cuddy dragged his way partly up the side, as far out of the water as he could get. His breath misted in the frigid night air, and the cutting wind infiltrated his now wet clothing. The misfortune simply reinforced his deep hatred of night attacks. They were always bloody shambles, and never achieved their main objective, that of catching the German troops off guard. As Cuddy clasped his arms around him, in a futile effort to hold in some warmth and stop his shivers, another bursting shell cast its fitful light over No Man's Land. In its brief illumination, Cuddy caught sight of a battered shape in an army uniform lying near him. He crawled nearer and, as the next burst cast light on the man's face, Cuddy realised who his companion was.

"Troll," he cursed bitterly.

Cuddy's family and the family of Private Detritus had been involved in an ongoing feud for longer than either family could recall. The original event that started the battle could only be dimly remembered, but all knew it was to do with the ownership of land in Koome Valley, ownership being claimed by both sides. Ordinarily, despite signing up at the same recruiting station, Cuddy and Detritus would not necessarily have encountered each other during the duration of the war. Unfortunately for them however, they had both ended up being shunted into the 95th after both their regiments had suffered heavy losses and been broken up rather than reformed. The situation was doubly unlucky due to the much reduced size of the 95th itself, as it prevented the two men from avoiding each other, as they might have been able to in a larger unit. Neither man had been there long, but both had already been disciplined by Captain Vimes when their simmering antagonism had boiled over into physical violence on more than one occasion.

And now they were stuck together. As cuddy crawled closer, the other man groaned and rolled towards him. Cuddy then saw the blood that stained the front of his uniform, glistening black in the sharp shell light. Cuddy cursed again, and the sound caused Detritus to turn his head to see.

"You…" he slurred, voice made thick by pain and cold.

Cuddy could see the blood was still flowing sluggishly from a hole in the cloth covering Troll's left thigh, and that the man's shivers were beginning to slow. For a long moment Cuddy hesitated, frozen by indecision. He knew that there were two choices laid before him, and that one of these would involve simply waiting for the inevitable. Detritus obviously though the choice had already been made, for he closed his eyes in resignation and turned his mud-streaked face away. It was this movement that made up Cuddy's mind. He'd be damned if he would fulfil the expectations of a Detritus. He crawled towards the larger man and hauled him into a sitting position, gratified by the expression of surprise on his face.

"I may hate you Troll, but I won't leave you to die." Cuddy muttered, tearing strips off the bottom of his slightly drier shirt. He wadded one into a pad and used the other to tie this tightly to the wound, ignoring Troll's oath of pain as the makeshift bandage was pulled tight.

"What happened…you too thick to point your gun properly?" Cuddy goaded, despite himself. "Leave it to a Detritus to shoot himself instead of the enemy."

"Shut up dwarf. I may not be smart, but at least I'm not some runt not strong enough to climb out of the hole he falls into."

This smarted. Cuddy knew he would not be able to scramble up the sheer, muddy sides of the crater without some help, but he bristled at the implication that this was due to his size or strength.

"If you're so anxious to leave, go ahead," he spat. "I'm sure a big brute like you would have no trouble getting out. What…you still here? What's the matter, don't you know which direction is out?"

Silence was Cuddy's only answer. He looked curiously at Troll, wondering why the man hadn't risen to his jibe. He took in the big man's pallor and closed eyes and quickly reached over, shaking him roughly. Troll opened his eyes sluggishly to look at his tormentor.

"What's wrong with you? You can't fall asleep, not in this icy muck," Cuddy hissed, panic shading his tone almost imperceptibly. He watched Troll as the man obviously made an effort, then began to drift again as shock and cold began to reassert themselves. Cuddy shifted uncomfortably, then reached out. Pulling Troll more fully out of the mire in the bottom of the crater, he settled the man against his side and wrapped his arms around him in an effort to pool their scant heat.

"We aren't going anywhere until dawn when this attack lets up, and you're not going to bloody die on me until we get back. Old Stoneface would only think I'd killed you otherwise."

Cuddy tried to hide the concern in his voice and hold on to his hatred but, crouched in a dirty shell hole with the sounds of battle with the sounds of war raging above and around them, the family's squabbles had never seemed further away.

"We have to break the family tradition and start talking…maybe then we'll forget it's as cold as a meat locker in here, and you'll be able to stay awake."

There was a long silence, through which Cuddy waited anxiously, before Troll finally spoke.

"Never been good with words," he said haltingly, "Only numbers."

"Numbers?"

"They make sense."

"So tell me," Cuddy ventured. "What can you do with numbers?"

There was another long pause then Troll began again, punctuating his words with symbols drawn in the mud by his side, his voice getting stronger and more sure as he went.

"We must assume the shells fired cover the exact distance of No Man's Land, and that the next shell is fired as the first one bursts. By counting the seconds between the sound of shells firing we would then know the time taken for the shell to cover a known distance. This allows us to calculate the average speed of a shell by working out the distance divided by the time."

Cuddy sat in a stunned silence, and not just because this was the longest sentence he had ever heard the other man say. As dawn began to lighten the horizon, Cuddy heard more mathematical theory than he thought existed, and the mud beside them grew thick with drawn equations. Finally, as the day brightened overhead, the sounds of battle that had been raging above died down. Cuddy shook himself out of his stupor and held up a hand to stop Troll.

"Should be safe to head back to the lines now, come on."

Cuddy stood up, wincing at the protests of his stiffened muscles. He then turned to offer Troll his hand. Hauling with all his strength Cuddy helped Troll to his feet, flinging one of the man's arms over his shoulder as he supported Troll round his waist. Cuddy could see Troll was shaking and could put no weight on his wounded leg.

"I…I can't get us up the side," Cuddy admitted.

Troll looked at Cuddy, seemingly weighing him up, then up at the rim of the shell crater. He then picked Cuddy up bodily, ignoring the man's protests, and flung him hard upwards. The effort caused him to collapse back into the mud with a groan, but he saw Cuddy hit the top of the hole, close enough to scramble over the edge. His head then reappeared over the rim.

"I'll be back soon with help."

* * *

Troll watched Cuddy's face disappear once more. He couldn't help wondering whether Cuddy would keep his promise, but realised he felt guilty for doing so. He still couldn't quite believe the other man had stayed with him throughout the night. Troll knew that had kept his alive, as alone he would never have been able to fight off the black tendrils of pain, fatigue and cold that without Cuddy's presence had begun to drag at him yet again. To distract himself, Troll began to draw more equations in the mud, far more complicated than any he had explained during the night. He let the trail of proofs and calculus carry him far away from where his body lay. 

He was shocked from his concentration when a slither of mud slid down, followed by two soldiers. They carefully pulled him to his feet, then man-handled him out of the shell hole, leaving the formulae smeared into obscurity behind them.

* * *

Cuddy smiled despite himself as Troll's mud-spattered form loomed over the rim of the crater. He smiled wider when he saw the half-hidden look of grateful surprise on the big private's face. Cuddy rushed over to take over supporting him, leaving the two soldiers to seek out others in need of aid. 

"Let's get back," Cuddy grunted as he staggered under the weight of Troll's stumbling form. "I can't wait to see what Old Stoneface's expression is when we come in together."

"Thanks Cuddy," Troll rumbled in his ear.

"Don't mention it." Cuddy paused, then continued, placing an entire peace proposal into four words. "What are friends for?"

Cuddy felt Troll chuckle, then begin to laugh.

"Our families will never forgive us," Troll ventured. This made Cuddy laugh just as hard.

When the collapsed back into the home trench Cuddy began shouting for a medic before propping Troll up on the fire step. He happily took in the identical looks of shock on the faces of the two sergeants, then stole a look towards Vimes. Cuddy felt an unexpected sense of pleasure seeing the small smile twitching the corners of his Captain's mouth. As the stretcher bearers appeared to take Troll back to the field hospital, Vimes stepped over to the two soldiers.

"I'm proud of you both," he said simply, then turned and walked away down the line of the trench.

o0o

* * *

By the time Cuddy and Troll finished their tale, night was shadowing the sky. Colon had bustled round and now everyone was clasping battered tin mugs of hot, twice-boiled tea. Carrot looked around at the men he would be spending the future years of his life fighting alongside. Cuddy's hand clapped down on his shoulder. 

"We'll look after you. Soon you'll be telling us your own stories."

"Right," Nobby echoed. "And Vimes will keep you alive if he can…not like some bloody officers."

He tossed a battered box to Carrot.

"There's your respirator. Take good care of it, they're a bugger to lay hands on."

Carrot nodded his thanks, still thinking Nobby might benefit from knowing what happened to thieves in his village. Despite this, he took his new Captain's advice and kept his thoughts to himself. Taking another swallow of tea, Carrot sat back on the duckboards, trying not to be excited about the war that stretched ahead of him. What he had encountered so far was not quite the daring adventure Sergeant Varnashi had described, but he was sure that was still to come.

**

* * *

Glossary:**

The Hun - The Germans

Glory hole - the dug-out (so not the other thing you were probably thinking!)

Fire step - the small step soldiers had to use to see over the top of the trench and fire at  
enemy

Duckboards - boards placed at the bottom of the trenches to provide a firm floor

Well, there is the next chapter. I made it extra long to make up for the long wait…so I hope at least someone was actually waiting! Please review and tell me what you think.


	3. Over The Top

A/N: Well here I am once more with a slightly shorter gap that before…not that that would be difficult considering how long the last chapter took me! I already had some firm ideas about this one though, mainly scraps of dialogue I had to find a way to fit in to some semblance of a plot. This task was hampered by the need to sit and pass my 1st Year university exams, but I managed it somehow! Thank you to all those who reviewed, if you were logged in I should have replied to you personally…if I didn't please accept my humble apologies and blame my absolute sieve of a memory. I hope this chapter will pass muster…it strays further from TP that the others do (now that I actually have to tell my own story as well as rehashing his), so we will see if my writing skills are up to the task.

**Warning:** Characters may experience some dizziness and blurred vision due to being abruptly plucked from their homes and thrown into another universe. Please allow time for eyes to adjust before proceeding.

**Disclaimer:** If I did own Discworld I would have been completely stiffed by this older guy stealing my stories. As the dark hordes of lawyers are not assembling you can assume this is not the case.

**

* * *

Chapter Three

* * *

**

Vimes read the telegram he had just be handed, unaware that the young Private who had delivered it was now slowly backing out of the dug-out at the look crossing Vimes' face. Vimes scowled down at the flimsy bit of paper, as if he wished the heat of his gaze could erase the orders he was confronted with.

'_The bloody idiots…'_

Glancing back up, Vimes caught sight of the Private, who was now trying reverently to look like a pile of sandbags rather than run the risk of catching Vimes' eye.

"Dismissed," he ground out, only just managing to moderate his voice from a snarl. The boy saluted and stumbled out of the dug-out, no doubt off to tell his friends how he had survived bringing Stoneface the man's most hated orders.

Vimes scrubbed his eyes wearily, wishing the words on the paper were different. Another push…another attempt to move the British lines forward which would result only in more grieving families back in England. Vimes took a silver cigarette case out of his breast pocket and withdrew a cigarette, looking lingeringly inside the lid before replacing it. As he drew the smoke into his lungs, he again made himself the promise that his regiment would not be unprepared.

'_What's left of it anyway,'_ he thought morosely, trying to hold back the black depression threatening to swamp him.

A splashing noise drew his attention, and he saw ripples spread through the puddle crossing in front of the dug-out that was his office. A familiar silhouette was reflected in said puddle.

"Come in Fred," he shouted without waiting for the man to come into view.

Sergeant Colon squelched into the doorway, the usual look of surprise on his round face.

"I will never work out how you know it's me coming," Colon began, but his smile faded when he caught sight of the telegram in Vimes' hand.

"Is that what I think it is sir?"

"I'm afraid so," Vimes replied with a sigh. "You better gather the men together."

Colon saluted and left, leaving Vimes alone with his thoughts. He screwed the telegram into a ball and tossed it on his desk, narrowly avoiding causing a paper avalanche on the western face. He had no concerns about the majority of his men…those still left in the 95th were there because they made a habit of _not _dying gloriously in battle. He was worried about his fresh-faced new recruit, who had obviously never been in a battle as he could still use the words 'honour and glory' with a straight face. Vimes had hoped that the two weeks Carrot had spent in the company of veterans like Nobby would have opened his eyes to the reality of their situation, but the boy seemed immune any mental tarnish…even one as pervasive as Nobby's.

Vimes took another deep drag on his cigarette, hoping that come tomorrow the boy would still have his life, if not his illusions. Then maybe he could allow himself to get to know this new recruit. He dimly remembered when he had made sure to know the names of all new recruits, and helped them settle in in person. That was a long time ago though…time marked out by young faces gasping out their lives in the mud over and over until he couldn't take the thought of another. Now he waited. If they could survive the first disorganised execution known as a battle…then he would find the man behind the uniform. Shaking himself from his dark thoughts, Vimes threw his cigarette down into the mud and stepped out to do his job. He was going to rally his men.

* * *

As he stepped out into the weak morning light, Vimes gathered his thoughts before turning to meet the rank's expectant faces. Even though he hated the long-winded speeches those in command gave to convince men to die for their cause, Vimes always seemed to end up doing something to try and prepare the rank for what lay ahead. It had become a tradition…and no soldier liked to break with tradition at a time like this. A small, sardonic smile flitted across Vimes' face as he began.

"Well men, yet again we are all being given a wonderful opportunity to show the Hun our talent for the 250 yard barbed-wire hurdles."

This was met by a heartfelt groan from everyone but Carrot, who simply looked mystified.

"I'm meant to remind you all what you are going to be fighting for…despite the fact that a bloody great country like Britain is a bit hard to forget. Unfortunately, the boys in charge don't think that wanting to be able to have a pint in your local again is a good enough goal, but if you can push thoughts of honour and glory to one side for just a bit…remember we're fighting so some other poor buggers don't have to do this again a few years down the line."

Vimes let his eyes fall on Carrot, who standing so rigidly to attention Vimes was surprised Nobby wasn't leaning against him for a smoke. Vimes controlled a wince as he began the part he always repeated when battle loomed. From the smiles breaking out on the men's faces, they were looking forward to hearing the old words.

"The rest of you know this off by heart, but I will repeat for the benefit of our new private. Our esteemed army commanders want you all to proceed slowly towards the enemy in a straight line, as anything else is too complicated for you common soldiers. For this reason, I do _not _want to see you moving quickly in a zig-zag fashion over No Man's Land avoiding obstacles. I do _not_ want to see you moving in a crouch to reduce your size as a target. I also specifically do _not_ want you to make use of any and all available cover to help you avoid enemy fire. Do I make myself clear?"

Vimes took another glance at Carrot, hoping the subtlety hadn't gone over his head. The private was still standing to attention, but his face looked so acutely innocent Vimes knew the man had to have understood.

"We attack just before sun-down, so you have the day to prepare. I want you all assembled at your stations in plenty of time though…15th Battalion is being kind enough to lend us Chaplain Visit to armour us with righteousness before we start."

Vimes dismissed the men and turned to leave, ignoring the snorts of amused disgust coming from those who had already encountered the Chaplain, affectionately disliked by all the soldiers he managed to corner.

* * *

It was a different story when Vimes returned, the low sun painting the trenches with a golden glow. Men huddled in groups as he walked past, muttering quietly to one another over the roar of the barrage. Others sat alone, staring into the middle distance with blank faces, their eyes haunted. His small group were all sat together in a loose slump, listening to Visit's sermon with various degrees of attention on their faces. Nobby was smoking, Colon was sweating and Cuddy was whispering earnestly in Troll's ear, a tense smile on his face. The only one paying attention to the chaplain's sermon was Carrot, but Vimes was mildly surprised at the lack of nerves the Private was displaying. Vimes pulled out his watch and checked the time, before replacing it with a sigh. He stepped up behind Visit and laid a hand on the man's shoulder. 

"Time to go…line up by the ladders."

Vimes was dimly aware of Visit's hand clasping him, and a murmured prayer, but he was already beyond that. His world narrowed to the task before him, the battle he had to fight, the men that were his to protect. As he reached the ladder an unnatural hush fell as the barrage finally ceased. Nobby spat out his cigarette with a curse.

"Nice to know they'll be expecting us," he muttered tightly, his eyes fixed on the wall of mud they would soon be beyond.

Vimes placed his foot on the bottom rung, his hand fumbling for the whistle one of his breast pockets. With his other hand he drew his pistol, yearning for the solid weight of a rifle he had know before he became an officer. He could hear the scrape as bayonets were fixed and the click of magazines being checked, together with the nervous shifting of bodies all around him. A thready whistle pierced the silence, soon joined by others. Vimes blew his own, then lunged up the ladder and out into the evening hell.

Then he was running, the rattle of machine guns a counterpoint to his racing heart. The mud sucked at his boots as he ran, as he weaved around craters, as he dodged barbed wire, as bullets whipped past him, as men fell with choked screams, as his breath rasped in his throat. Out of the corner of his eye he caught glimpses of the others, their faces strained as they pushed ever onward.

Vimes flung himself into a narrow ditch and crouched there, panting as he paused to take stock of his position. If he craned his head to peer over his makeshift shelter Vimes could see the dark line of the first German trench some yards away. Unfortunately he could also see the machine-gun emplacement spitting out its deadly hail, ready to be trained on whoever was foolish enough to attempt a suicidal last dash.

Further down, Vimes could see Colon with Cuddy and Troll, grouped with their backs to him. He couldn't see Nobby, but that didn't mean the other Sergeant wasn't around, just that he might be more mud-spattered than usual. Vimes was about to call out to them when there was a slither of mud and suddenly Carrot was at his elbow. The Private seemed not to be at all out of breath, and even found time to snap a quick salute as he squatted down next to Vimes.

"What now sir?" Carrot shouted above the noise, taking his own quick glance towards the enemy.

"We need to reach that first line of trenches," Vimes replied. "But with that machine gun able to pin us down…"

Vimes trailed off as Carrot, with a determined nod, scrambled up and began to run for the trench, shouting and levelling his rifle. For a second Vimes was stunned into immobility at the insanity of the action but found himself following, his own yell not so much a battle cry as a frantic attempt to attract the attention of the others in the ditch. He saw the gunners' shocked faces at the impossible challenge, the men trying to reposition and bring the gun to bear on the new threat, before a bullet from Carrot's rifle caught one man in the throat. As the soldier fell with a gurgle Vimes aimed his own pistol at the one remaining. His shot struck home in the man's chest, then Vimes was leaping down into the German trench where bloody havoc was already being wreaked. Vimes could see Carrot fighting off to his left but, before he could get closer, a German officer loomed in his vision with more behind.

Breathing hard, Vimes let his last opponent fall. When no other appeared to attack he took a chance to glance up, only to find the area empty of enemy soldiers. The rest of the rank had obviously heard his earlier shout and followed, for they all now stood with him, slightly shocked expressions on all their faces. Vimes nodded to Troll and Cuddy, who went to take up stations at either end of the captured section, peering round the tight corners of the zig-zag to warn of the inevitable German counter-attack. Colon took the red flag from his pack, planting it above the parapet to signal to Allied troops. It was now a race to see who would arrive first.

Just then, a new sound penetrated the aural chaos. It was the signal to retreat, something that would normally be welcome, but not with the whole of No Man's Land separating them from the safety of the British lines. Already it was becoming difficult to make out the distant trenches as the dusk deepened. Vimes cursed under his breath, turning back to signal to him men.

"Form up!" he shouted. "Back as quickly as we can, before they can re-man this station."

"But…we've captured an enemy trench sir," Carrot replied, his voice laced with confusion.

"Correct…but only a section of it, and it seems the rest of the army hasn't shared our good fortune. Now the retreat has sounded the rest of the army is doing just that, and in a few minutes lots of heavily armed German soldiers will be boiling round these corners and into this section. Oddly enough, Private Ironfoundersson, I don't want to be here when they arrive."

* * *

They had only been back long enough to shed their packs and flop achingly down onto the sodden fire-step when Colonel Vetinari stalked into the trench, flanked by his aide. Everyone dragged themselves to attention, acknowledged by a nod from the Colonel. 

"At ease. Captain Vimes, you and I have something to discuss."

Vimes followed Vetinari a way down the trench, Captain Drumknott following at a respectful distance.

"Another attack completed Captain."

"Yes sir."

"Do you know Captain, out of the entire attacking force, your men were the only ones to reach and capture a section of the enemy trench? Quite remarkable, wouldn't you say?"

"Sir."

Vetinari fixed Vimes with a look, but continued without mentioning Vimes' monosyllabic responses.

"Remarkable deeds in this war are useful. They can be used to inspire, to raise the hopes of those ordinary soldiers who sweat out their lives in these muddy trenches. Of course those who do the deeds will not be overlooked…"

"You know what I want sir."

Vetinari sighed.

"Very well, I will try to send you more me Vimes, but in return…"

Vetinari removed something from his pocket, holding it up so Vimes could see it.

"No I bloody won't…sir"

"The army needs heroes Vimes, so you _will_ accept this medal and you _will_ wear it proudly on parade. If not, I swear I will have you assigned to a desk back at HQ."

"…Thank you for the medal sir, it is an honour to receive it."

"See Captain, that was easier than you thought," said Vetinari, ignoring Vimes' scowl with practiced ease. "I trust you will present these other medals to the rest of your squad with my compliments."

"Sir."

Vetinari smiled dryly, motioning to Drumknott as he turned to leave.

"Carry on Captain Vimes."

* * *

The next chapter…sorry for keeping you waiting again. Long summer holidays coming up now my exams are over though, so I should have more time to write. Please review and let me know what you think! 


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